My business is with Lady Trafford. She didn’t realize she was until one day she has horrible cramps and she screams for me while she is on the toilet, and then she screams for her mother. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. She ran her gaze over him, and allowed her eyelashes to flutter down. Gerald tried it. " "Jack's mother?" exclaimed the young man.
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